Moribund Love
by harponMOO
Summary: It is always a bit sullen in a hospice. Quiet and a little bitter. Carefree laughs don't exist there- and words like tomorrow and certainly were never taken advantage of. But love is blind and pays no mind to life expectancy. Hospice!AU USUK
1. Chapter 1

It is always a bit sullen in a hospice. Quiet and a little bitter. Carefree laughs don't exist there- and words like _tomorrow_ and _certainly_ were never taken advantage of. If you tried to name a smell, which is usually a bad idea, you could say it smelt like a methodic bleach cleaning and cold, powdery packet mashed potatoes. Not very pleasant. No, the rooms are not all a dead white, the occupants are not all old and shrivelled and positively mad or deliciously senile.

In fact, now a little girl sits on the edge of her bed. She is wearing a red and white stripped skirt with soft cotton socks, and she looks away from the man in front of her to cough every few seconds. Her smooth, short blond hair is held back with a loopy bow, and her green eyes are underlined with tiredness. She has acute lymphoblastic leukaemia- and could possibly live. But this story isn't about that girl with soft cotton socks that she slides across the halls in. It's about the person who will become her roommate. Well, not really roommate, because in a few hours she won't be there anymore, and someone else will be in her bed, keeping the washed- _rewashed_- sheets warm.

His name is Arthur Kirkland. When he was three years old, doctors told his parents he'd be lucky to live past seventeen. But this story isn't _solely_ about him. It's also about the small sliver of sunshine that slips into the cracks of the tall building. His name is Alfred F. Jones.

He was given a long, healthy life and told to live it. He chooses to spend that time helping those less fortunate and kicking ass in first person shooter games.

He walks in to work on Sunday morning, hopeful the way only those too young to the world still are. First he checks Lili's room. But it's empty and cold just like they'd told him. Then he goes to meet with the brother of one of his patients.

Lovino isn't a pleasant person. His scowl digs into the lines of his face as Alfred explains how his brother is doing.

"This is fucking shit, ya know?" Lovino asks, only not really. He more of just says it, tacking on the ending as some sort of_ thank-you-for-making-my-brother's-remaining-days-peaceful_ gesture. Alfred accepts it.

"It's all you can do, though. Life wasn't made to be lived forever." And for a second he feels like he has a very profound thought about to erupt from him the way poets do, but he doesn't and passes it off on the piles of burgers he had eaten last night.

A nurse comes in. She is normally very happy, but has a carefully constructed frown on her face, to add sympathy where empathy is needed. She gives Alfred the nod. The one that means he's needed somewhere else, and he should get his lab coat-clad self there as soon as possible.

"Well, it was good talking to you, man. I'll see you next time," A tan hand is stretched in a goodbye gesture.

"I fucking hope not," Lovino mumbles, squinting his eyes and trying to be overly pessimistic.

The nurse takes over, rushing, so her long brown hair sways just so. Alfred wants to admire it, the astounding length and glisten of it in a place where so many children would die for just dry scraps of ambiguously healthy hair.

"Dr. Jones, you're needed downstairs." She reminds him- verbally this time. He knows if it's downstairs, it's probably a new patient. And those are the most heartbreaking. Some kids come in there not knowing it was a final stop. Not knowing that, if they are accepted into his care, they only have a six-month life expectancy. Unaware that the miraculous thing they depend on, dread, forget, appreciate- will all be over soon.

That's the hard part about a hospice. You aren't there for a cure, you're there for comfort.

And he tries his best to give it to them, to not get too attached. To remember that he is there to make their last few days, months, hours, _whatevers_, as nice as possible. He doesn't work for himself, he works for others.

Dr. Jones is a very young doctor, one of the youngest actually. He isn't an Ambati, but he's close. He is only twenty. When he was younger, his family moved around a lot trying to find a cure. His brother had Menkes disease, and didn't live past ten. _So many candles never blown out._ As a result, Alfred didn't go to public school, and received his GED before he hit puberty.

He likes the fact that he is young. That people stare and wonder how he possibly could've done it, and how the preteen girls' faces light up in amusement at his adorable antics. That doesn't matter now. Because his boss isn't a preteen girl, and his face isn't lighting up like a Christmas tree before dawn.

"Dr. Jones, you're late," A usual huff. It's always a huff with Ludwig.

"Sorry," Only they both know he isn't, so it's hollow and plastic in his throat- in the air.

"I'll be talking with the Kirklands today. Their son, Arthur, will be coming tomorrow. You're to watch over him until you get another serious case." Alfred accepted this, the way he accepted ten times ten is one-hundred and if he back talked his southern ma, he'd be limping all the way back to Portland. He couldn't stop death. He just watched it take others, and oiled the car and fixed the breaks- anything to make the ride more comfortable.

At least, that is what he thought. It was easy to take things while sitting down and call himself a hero. But really, it was just a replacement for pain and for loss. Filling himself with narcissism instead of pulling out his hair like clam shells and collapsing in despair.

How many deaths is one supposed to see in a life? Whatever the number, it is too many. But Alfred swallowed the pill like a bitter pain medicine and waited for the numbness to set in.

He could've waited forever, but then he met the Kirklands.

* * *

Martha Kirkland has a broad, bespectacled face with fine, respectable lines drawn in by time. She sits with her legs crossed, her pointed ballet shoes hitting the table in a nervous metronome. Oliver Kirkland has a small, pinched up face that was round and fat like the moon. He has a thin, red neck and glared in the general direction of everyone. Four teens sit on a faculty sofa, squashed together and flinging feet and insults.

"Peter, Scot, Ireland- and, uhm-"

"Oscar," A quiet kid who is stuck in the middle offers.

"And Oscar! You need to be quiet and nice. Dr. Jones is trying very hard."

"Izzok," Alfred happily slurs, delighted by their crisp accents.

The kids still don't double-cross their mother, and settle down into the smelly seats and look up expectantly.

"Are you all going to be the main visitors for Arthur?" Alfred asks after all the kids quiet themselves and things are a bit more silent and approachable.

"I 'spose, he hasn't many friends." The girl, Ireland, answers. The eldest boy snickers and after a bit, she joins him. Martha shoots them a warning glance.

Alfred wants to ask how old Arthur is, but that was probably on some paper he should've read and he doesn't want to seem unprofessional so instead he asks about Arthur's favourite activities and colours, small things that could make his stay very pleasant. The family stumbles to answer them. It is obvious that they don't know Arthur very well. That they only see the diseases and the impending death, not the person. Alfred feels a bit of pity settle into his heart, but then realises he doesn't know a thing about Matthew but that didn't change the amount of love he held for him. Family was like that.

"And please," Martha adds after the farewell, a small red purse in her hands and a small red purse on her lips, "don't tell him he's going to die. He knows it, just, let him hope." And then she was a flash of mousy brown hair and Alfred was forgetting her.

He has a few bags of Arthur's belongings that the nurses will add to his room to make it feel more like a home and less like a mausoleum. The first bag is full of books- his favourites apparently. Absurd poets and fantastical novels that seem crafted for show in thick, leather bound copies. The next bag contains nicknacks. A small plush pony with a horn, _he must be just a kid_, that shimmers in the light and is an endless white. Two ceramic tea cups with smooth, polished holders, spoons, and stirrers. The last bag, which is a tight black duffle, is filled to the brim with thread and needles and patterns and laces and napkins and- _what in the world that thing is_- embroidery. He must be a very respectable boy.

"Do you think he'd want this on the bed?" A nurse, new to the job, holds out the unicorn.

"Yeah, yeah of course. Look, I gotta go down to hospital, y'all know I was mostly here for Lili." And that was true. Alfred doesn't work in the hospice per se; he just floated there occasionally when a patient took a permanent turn for the worst.

The hospital was across the street. It has a happier atmosphere than the hospice. Life could be born there, only the opposite occurred in the other place. He walks in with confidence, washes his hands with relish, and sits down next to the nurses.

"Shouldn't you go home, Alfie?" This nurse is really cute, with a long, European nose and short curls.

"Nah, I'm fine Belle," He blows it off, and leans against the desk more. The other nurses glance at him.

"I think you're a fucking liar. We all know you're getting another _wombat_," A male nurse, Gilbert, hisses. Some of the others frown and lightly chastise him, but they were all thinking that it was true. None of them had ever worked over in the hospice, so they still joked about things like that.

"He won't be a _wombat_, he isn't there for a cure. You guys know that. Just let a kid be a _kid_ for a little while longer." Alfred glares, but it isn't serious. He knew the things he'd seen had changed him. And he couldn't expect them all to change along with him. Still, it wasn't right to assume someone a waste of money, brains, and time. _Wombat_ was a rather vicious acronym.

In the end, Dr. Jones is at the hospital until five in the morning. The sun rises behind them while he treats small wounds and sews up broken people into whole ones.

"Al, you should go," Belle insists, tugging at his sleeve as she hands him a coffee. Two sugars, no cream.

"Go where?" He wants to know this time. Wants to know it so bad that he is gripping his cup too tight and his short nails dig into the styrofoam and if he doesn't stop soon holes will be poked through.

"Go home. Go to sleep. Go," She continues, not knowing that the hospital was Alfred's life because it had taken away his other lives. Three times. First his brother, then his mother, lastly his best friend- a real companion that he stuck to like a magnetically charged being and stayed up telling secrets to like they were little girls.

"I'll go get ready to meet Arthur, how is that?" That means brushing his teeth, showering, changing.

"Yes, that's good, just leave. You reek and I hate you," She grins, and he returns it a bit too late but it was an honest smile all the same.

"I hate you, too," He says goodbye that way and thought he maybe just loved her.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was the absurd sort of soul who quoted incongruous poetry for every situation. The first thing he says when Dr. Jones greets him and asks for his name is, "_I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses and my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons._" Alfred just takes it with stride and misplaced confusion.

"Hello there, Nobody. You just call me your hero and I'm here to rock your world."

"I prefer steady ground, thank you very much." And then he opens his eyes and Alfred sees that they are green and that even though he is hunched and thin he isn't a kid at all. He is too beautiful to be a kid.

"Well, I'll show you around Nobody, need a hand?" He offers one as he sees the teenager stumble and look around, embarrassed and confused.

"I used to be sharp as a tack, you know. Good at football, too. Now my thoughts are so heavy I can hardly hold my head up," He is melancholy and Alfred absorbs him up as much as he can, liking the bitter feel on his skin.

"I know that feeling, bro. It happens when you turn old," The doctor leads him up to his new room, wondering if he can see at all. If he can feel at all.

Arthur suddenly slumps in Alfred's arms, his head lolls to the side, and his legs stiffen. His hands shake a bit, and he chants unclear words over and over. A common effect of his disease, something Alfred will have to get used to. Lili's wasn't like that, Lili just had pains, and bruises, and was too weak to even sigh sometimes.

When Arthur regains control of his body, he is bashful beneath the bed sheets. Alfred is stroking his sides, reminding him everything is all right.

"_Here we are sitting in a room. You don't know me and I don't know you,_" Arthur is mumbling again, but this time Alfred can understand the words.

"You like poetry, huh, Nobody?"

"The name is Arthur, and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," He dangles his hand in front of Alfred's face, trying to rouse a shake.

"You can't be real," Alfred breathes. Here is a man, not even eighteen, never going to be eighteen, and he is perfect and old on the inside. He spoke through poetry and shook hands and, though his brain had been declining for a while, he was still rather quick.

"I believe I still am," Alfred smiles, but he is too far away and Arthur can't see it.

"So, how bad is your vision?"

"It isn't good enough for glasses, if that is what you're asking." Arthur responds a moment later, still in bed. His fingers run carelessly through his stuffed animal's plush mane.

"Well, my name is Alfred. Call me that, will ya?" Arthur is quiet for a moment. Racking his brain for some poetry by an Alfred, any Alfred, that would fit the mood. His eyes drip, and soon he is thinking too hard to stay awake. Before he slips off to sleep, and Alfred slips off to check his age, he remembers something.

"_I turned and hummed a bitter song that mocked the wholesome human heart, and then we met in wrath and wrong, we meet, but only met to part."_

**AN:**

**I don't know too much about hospices, only through research online and the fact my sister works at one.** Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated :)

Poems by: Sylvia Plath, Ace of Black Hearts, Alfred Lord Tennyson 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur is getting used to darkness. To barely being able to see anything. He likes seeing glimpses of blue though, when Alfred dopes him up on pain medicine. Palliative care is quite effective. Arthur is getting used to being alone, and when Alfred comes in with breakfast and a story to tell, he greets him.

"_There's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. Nobody ever finds the one._" It is a moody sigh, but Alfred likes it, likes the way Arthur is so British and partly delirious but it fits him like a glove and he plays it like a role.

"Are you telling me I'm going to be alone forever?" He pretends to grump, hoping more words of wisdom reach him. They do.

"_The city dumps fill/the junkyards fill/the madhouses fill/the _hospitals_ fill/the _graveyards_ fill/nothing else fills._" Green eyes close again, sucking last seconds of sleep, gathering his energy for a proper conversation with Alfred. He wants to do this, to hold on as long as possible because now he has a charming doctor and it seems so lustrously juvenile and cliché and he just _has_ to try it.

"Well, anything you'd like to do today? Your family is visiting tonight, to check up on you."

"Then will they be going back to England? I'm fully sick of them," He tries not to feel like a kid. But he was a kid.

"I, I think they'll stick around for a bit, if you want them too," Dr. Jones reminds himself that this is just a boy, of course he hates his parents. Who hasn't?

"It is not childish hate, if that is what you're assuming," Arthur knows that is what his doctor thinks it is. And maybe, deep down, it is a little bit. But they weren't the nicest people. His mother too spineless, his father too angry, his siblings too overbearing and cruel. One would think that knowing you aren't going to live a full life would elect pity from others. But it doesn't, not really at least. Only silly pity at wrong, useless moments.

"I wasn't assuming that, but you'll want them around. Or else you'll just have to spend all day with me," Alfred is grinning again, but he's still too far away and Arthur can hardly see anymore anyway. He feels it instead, and that is almost better than any sight in the world.

"I shall schedule their deportation at once," Arthur declares. Then, his brain slacks, and he can feel his body move, and he's quite embarrassed but he can't help it, so he just waits until things are normal again.

Alfred understands, and doesn't think less of him. There are rules to courting Arthur. The first is that Arthur must always remain in his special chair. It's almost like a wheel chair, but Arthur likes to think he can still walk so it isn't that. The second is that they mustn't talk about it. They see the line they've crossed- they can feel it, taste it, _know_ that it has been passed, but they don't do anything. Arthur is only seventeen. He only has a few months to live. A few weeks until he can't see at all.

"Did you know," Arthur says, causing Alfred's attention to return back to him instead of some blasted T.V. show that Arthur can't even see, not to mention _want_ to see, "I cannot write anymore?"

"No. You're so smart, it's hard to think 'bout that stuff." Dr. Jones hasn't been sleeping well. His friends have noticed; he gets sloppy sometimes. Once, Arthur was in pain for hours because he forgot to give him the special pill, the one that made all feelings go away. He wished he could take one of those. Because now he was feeling all these things in his stomach, and really, he wanted to roll Arthur outside and take him to a movie, grab him a burger, go see an art exhibit.

That doesn't happen. They spend days cramped up inside, talking about anything Arthur can manage, him quoting a few poems whenever a situation deems it appropriate. His parents left three days ago. This marks his first week at the hospice. He's starting to believe in love at first sight.

"Alfred, please kiss me already. I don't want to be blind when it first happens." It is snappish and rude, and from the sofa, Alfred is stuttering, looking around to see if any nurses, physicians, or volunteers had heard.

"Don't go around blurting things like that!" It's cold outside, already turning to winter. Arthur imagines himself dying in the spring. He savours the irony before turning back to the matter at hand.

"I'm dying, pity me." His upper lip sticks out, touching the soft, ivory skin of his upper chin. Alfred is taken by this delightful boy. He doesn't pity him, he adores him.

"_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead_," Arthur whispers, seeing Alfred get up to come and loom over him. He squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly nervous. First kisses do mean a lot, you know.

"I'm going to Hell," Alfred murmurs before closing all gaps and pressing tightly to the cold, purple-_ish_-blue-_ish_ lips of his patient. It isn't warm, but a fondness settles into his stomach. One he has never felt before. Sure, he felt electricity. That is what is often described as ideal, but Alfred is starting to doubt that. It only made him feel jumpy and too hot. It caused his fingers to prickle and his stomach to clench. What he has with Arthur is much better. It is comfortable, as if he could just relax into the other's mouth, leeching off of it for all nutrients, foregoing hygiene and conversation. This is heaven.

It ends. Arthur starts heaving, his poor lungs not able to handle something as exciting as that for so long. It sounds like slick suction cups when they pull apart, their mouths smooth with lust and saliva. Arthur opens his eyes slowly, green window shades pulled up.

"_I lift my lids and all is born again._" He is looking straight into a sea of blue.

* * *

"I'm worried," Alfred is on the phone. He is talking to the long, European-nosed nurse. He hasn't seen her in a week and hasn't thought about her in days. Kissing Arthur Kirkland is the best choice he's ever made in his life.

He likes doing it too; it's more addicting than any drug he's ever tried. And really, he's not even twenty one yet, so the list wouldn't be too long. He likes the way Arthur scrunches up his nose when they're about three minutes into it, and getting breathless and sappy. Dr. Jones likes the part when Arthur starts to melt into his arms like they are in some cheesy romance novel. Maybe it is because he just lost control of his limbs, but there aren't any shakes, so he assumes it's meant for him to feel.

"Why?" He replies a million years later.

"You don't go out with us anymore, you hardly ever leave that place. Alfred, do you even sleep over there?" Her voice is angry, but the questions are practised. He feels nothing. He doesn't reply.

"Look, just, go out with us tonight. Gilbert is getting sorted, and we can all meet by the park." He doesn't want to say yes. He wants to hold Arthur's hand. Right now he's sleeping, turning slightly in his sleep, drool dribbling down his cheek. A new patient came to that room today. Arthur instantly hated him as much as the other boy instantly loved him.

So Dr. Jones will leave the volunteers and day nurses in charge of the two boys, one on the left side of the room, the other on the far right.

"Arthur, I'm going. Anything you need?" Dr. Jones asks, nose in the door.

"I want you to get this fucking Frog out of my room." Arthur is grumbling, still turned over on his side and facing the doorway.

"I can't do that sweetie," Alfred teases, knowing that pet names both delight and mortify the other boy.

"Then I wish one of us would die already. He smells French, I hate it." To Alfred, it doesn't make sense. He wonders if the boy is already starting to lose his ability to think correctly, but then he quotes another farewell poem, and everything is okay so he goes out to get another type of high.

"_The sun sinks to the horizon. Soon I shall be tossed into a gentle mass grave. In the sky the fine red evening is burning. Perhaps in thirteen days I'll be dead._"

* * *

Gilbert is sitting on a park bench, deep into the trail, where kids don't go. Belle, the caring nurse, is sitting on the grass, her light blue dress getting stained by the moist dirt. Two other hospital workers were there. Interns for Gilbert, which would be a pretty awful experience.

"Hey, I'm June," A tan nurse with long hair waves from off to the side. She has shorts on that show her endless legs, but Alfred isn't drawn to them like he would've been any other day. Arthur is waiting for him.

"I'm Alfred," He waves back.

Gilbert is smoking now, lighting up the freshly rolled stick and taking slow drags from it. Belle eyes it curiously, then takes it from him.

"Awesome," He grins, then attempts to lean down and kiss her but is pushed away.

"Don't you have a boyfriend?" She asks after a few puffs.

"Yeah, but Roddy wouldn't care." Of course he would care. But Gilbert isn't thinking and soon they are all blowing out misty air and none of them are thinking. It ends with a pile of them on the winter grass, too warm to keep inside.

Gilbert drains a beer and they use that to play spin the bottle. Both girls kiss, laughing and humming into each other's mouths. Gilbert kisses both of them, while Alfred lights up another stick and forgets more.

Alfred joins the kiss because the bottle tells him so, and it tells the other intern, a sassy looking boy with green eyes and blond hair. He sort of reminds Alfred of Arthur, but he is too far gone to feel regret.

Soon it's just sloppy licks and nibbles on necks, collarbones, occasionally a mouth. It's nice. Not electric or what he feels with Arthur, but nice all the same. Feeling reckless, hands slip up shirts, feeling around for bras and for smooth, flat chests. It's reckless and they are young and high.

It starts snowing, and they all break apart to laugh. Alfred falls asleep outside, and when he wakes up he feels frozen and contrite.

Slowly, he makes his way back home to strip down and shower. The walk isn't long and the hot water kills his skin pleasurably. He tries not to wonder about the dying boy in the hospice. He can't help but let his thoughts flood him. He wonders if he should tell Arthur. This leads him to question what they are. If they aren't an item, then why does he feel so guilty he could die? It's an awful feeling; it starts in his stomach and pulls him down, nearly making him unable to move.

The hot water is his only salvation, and soon it runs out, leaving him shivering and miserable. He can't go to the hospice today, so instead he cleans up, swallows some microwave hamburgers, and goes to the hospital. He sees a two year old girl die after getting hit by her mom's car because she was running through the streets and watches surgeons stitch up three people. But what haunts him the most is the old man who dies. He is sitting in the waiting room when it happens, and no one notices until after he's cold and clammy.

Alfred runs across the street to Arthur. Worried isn't half of what he's feeling. It's more like shame and if he died while Alfred was away, he'd never forgive himself. He didn't even think about Arthur dying when he went away to smoke. Their relationship was too new for death. It had to get to some point of closure. It was like an open wound and you couldn't just brush it aside. You had to let the wound fester and puss, allowing them to fall deeply for each other, so the sting would be a better feeling. One of knowing and loss, instead of almost knowing, and still losing.

He runs up the stairs, until he is in Arthur's room and he sees the boy sleeping and looking just fine and his blood drains from his face.

"Arthur! Arthur! Are you alive?" Arthur wakes up, rolls over and glares.

"Yes, I'm quite alright." His glare softens until it is just a loving squint.

"I have something to tell you," And for a hope beyond all hopes, Arthur thinks he's about to be told he is loved. His heart swells vulnerably.

"I kinda made out with some people." Time freezes a bit, and for a second, Dr. Jones is worried he just killed Arthur Kirkland by announcing his infidelity. A moment later and there still isn't a response.

Arthur feels cold inside. He doesn't understand, his brain hears the words, but he can't comprehend them. He hasn't ever cared about someone as much as he cared about Alfred, but still, he isn't used to it. He isn't used to betrayal. He was still shiny and new to the idea of devotion.

"Arthur, look, just tell me it isn't okay, and I'll never do it again." The French boy across the room stirs, but realises the intense situation, and excuses himself to the bathroom. He can walk.

Still not facing him, still thinking, he whispers, "Please go away. Go away and don't come back because I'll never forgive you." Maybe he was being dramatic. Maybe in the real world, kisses didn't mean anything. But Arthur has never been a part of that world, so he doesn't know what to do.

Things moved too fast anyway. Way too fast. And Arthur was going to die. So it was better to forget him now, to move on naturally, instead of forced by death.

"_If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, I never could have made it half so sure, as by the unblest kisses which upbraid the full-waked sense; or falling that, degrade! 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore what we have forfeited. I see no sin: the wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, no villain need be! Passions spin the plot: we are betrat'd by what is false within._" And it's the longest part of a poem Arthur will ever recite for him. He barely hears it, catching it by chance as he closes the door and promises himself not to return.

**AN:**

Poems by: Charles Bukowski, Sylvia Plath, Alfred Litchenstien, George Meredith


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur's vision is the first thing to go. He doesn't mind being blind considering he doesn't have anything to see anymore. A new nurse replaced Alfred seamlessly. They do not kiss, she just talks with him about his plans, and what he likes to do. She gives him a notebook and a pencil because he is wonderfully poetic and seems like the type to appreciate that.

He never told her that he can't write anymore.

She teaches him Braille, but his brain can't grasp onto straws easily anymore, and it is a struggle. A month passes, and winter is almost over. It is the last day in February and a blizzard rages outside, painting the windows white and the streets a dirty, polluted grey.

The French boy isn't his roommate anymore, they only kissed twice, and the first time it was an accident. Their lips feel together when Arthur stumbled out of the bathroom. The second time was just to experiment, and Arthur felt pity for the boy who was dying so quickly. It was electric and he didn't think of Alfred.

Alfred just became a regular heartache that he sometimes thought about. His mother called him every week, and they would talk and he was glad she wasn't there. They had already exhausted their resources trying to keep him alive. They needed a turn to live.

His new nurse comes in. She is tall and curvy, with brown hair and a sharp nose.

"You loved him, didn't you?" She asks as Arthur faces the window, not seeing but pretending all the same.

"No, I did not. If it was love, I would have forgiven. Instead I have chosen to forget," He thinks that is a wonderful way to phrase it, but she doesn't buy it.

"And how is this _forgetting_ going?" Arthur doesn't reply, and just opens his dull green eyes and faces her. It scares her; he can hear her breath hitch. He must be so ugly, curved spine, blind eyes, purple hands and feet, so thin that if he turns, he'd disappear.

She rolls him outside for lunch. He is wearing a vomit green jacket with three brass buttons fitted along his neck. It was snowing but it wasn't cold.

"I like winter most. The snow can cover everything. It's easiest to lie."

"And do you do it often? Lie?" She isn't curious, just trying to avoid awkward silence as best as she can. He hadn't asked her favourite season, so she must replace that lack with another question.

"I suppose I do, it makes things rather convenient. I hate people who blame lies for their problems." His eyes are closed, because he doesn't know what else to do with them now that he can't see. He wonders what it looks like. Soft honey snow coating the ground in paper-like patterns.

"If lying isn't the problem, what is?" Again, a silence filler.

"It's the need to lie, of course. It's believing in lies. If someone tells you a pink elephant wearing a crown made of bones ate your cake when all the while chocolate icing is smeared around _their_ lips, you're the fool for believing them. Not them for lying." He says it reasonably, as if his whole life had been leading up to this question. He is well prepared.

"Would you like some cake, then?" Of course she doesn't understand. His words were hollow in her ears, sinking down to her stomach and now she realised, _hey- I'm hungry_.

"No, but you can get some, I feel as though that is what you're trying to ask." His lips are a light lavender, his fingernails a dull blue. Arthur needs to go inside; his body's circulation isn't working too well at the moment.

"I'll make you some warm milk, good for your bones. How about that?" Arthur doesn't answer, just feels his own heart beat and decides on how long it will last. Yes, spring would be a nice time for a funeral.

* * *

February has been a good month, and Arthur says goodbye to it under sheets, listening to the soft snores of his nurse, the one with brown hair. She is sleeping in his room today, because he is expected to die soon. They don't tell him this, but he can feel it in himself as well as in their stares, so he knows.

When it is night, and he can't sleep, he plays little games with himself. Counting shadows, lights that fade and die from passing cars. It's fairly simple. How long he can hold his breath, though he doesn't attempt it now because his lungs are weak and his life is fleeting. Tonight he gives up to rest and to dream.

Three things are wrong when he wakes up. One; the window is open and the sound of traffic is blaring through the paper thin walls and leaving him restless. Two; his nurse is gone. Her soft brown hair is missing from the snow white pillow. The lumps of her body not hidden under sheets. Three; Alfred Jones is standing in the doorway, watching him with regretful eyes.

Arthur only notices one, the fact that the noise from the street below is too loud. He can't see, so Alfred speaks.

"Sup, dude?" Those idiotic words anger Arthur so inexplicably; he wonders why he hasn't exploded yet.

"And why the _hell_ are you here?" Arthur manages to snap out, his throat feeling like sandpaper, his tongue rough.

"I just wanted to say goodbye. But it's not going to be a goodbye, is it? You're going to live. I can tell," And then Alfred is beaming, his white teeth glistening but it doesn't mean anything because Arthur is still blind and Arthur is still angry.

"I'm going to die, and I'm going to decay, and I'm going to be buried, and it'll all be too late for us, I'm sorry, our movie moment was ruined by you being a slag." And even though Arthur was blind, he could see. See the hurt in Alfred. He wanted to draw it out and make the other suffer like he had. Arthur wanted the other crying; clutching the fabric of his shirt around the shallow, black heart of his.

"You aren't, can't you see? That'd be an awful ending for the movie. We're going to get married," And he's peppering kisses around Arthur's face, while the dying Briton is slapping them away and frowning. Then he falls back onto the bed, his arms stiff, his legs thrashing about, kicking everywhere. Arthur screams, cries out, but he can't stop it. He can't tell his body to stop. This spasm last for a while, but Dr. Jones takes care of him, rubbing his sides and trying to calm him down. It's all very heroic.

And then it's over and Alfred is pretending it never happened, Arthur is so thankful he pulls the doctor into a kiss, delighted the warmth and passion is still there. He misses Alfred's mouth, but that's okay, because it still means the same thing.

"_What am I to make of these contradictions? I wear white cuffs, I bow."_ It is more to himself, but Dr. Jones hears it anyways, and wonders.

The struggle has ended. Arthur is so very much in love, and tells Alfred. Tells him a hundred times until the other is glowing, his skin warm under blue fingers. Arthur feels comfortable enough to sleep…for just a little while.

When he wakes up, everything is a perfect dream. Light sounds buzz around him, creating a certain dizziness in the atmosphere.

"_I have enchanted all of Nature, and forged each moment's quality. And what a horrifying freedom I found in such a sorcery,"_ Alfred is still asleep, hanging off the small bed, his long legs dragging on the ground, giving Arthur plenty of space. Space he doesn't want. All he wants is to make up for wasted time.

"Alfred, Alfred dear, wake up. I want to go out today. I want to smell spring." The doctor is groaning, not realising that he looks so hopelessly awkward.

The brown haired nurse is waiting for Arthur when he rolls himself downstairs. She speaks to him in a comforting voice, as if he'd just experienced a letdown.

"I'm not dead yet, you know," He reminds her as she helps him with a bath, turning the water dials with an eased practice. Arthur likes very warm baths, and would stay in them until he became a wrinkly mess. It is a small comfort he can still control. They can't take baths away from him, can they?

"That's the problem." She mumbles, and he feels so horrified that she explains. "I'm worried about Alfred, we all are. He's putting so much faith in you." She says this as if it's in Arthur's control. As if him dying is really just a minor inconvenience to everyone, and he should just stop.

"Do you think I want to die? Do you think I'm enjoying this?" He's angry again, always anger. He's snapping and resisting her burning touches; the water splashes around dangerously.

After a few moments, he calms down, and she finishes cleaning him in silence. Alfred is in the staff room cooking a breakfast the dietary specialist picked out for the guests. He likes cooking Arthur's food, slicing the tomatoes and dicing onions is a lot easier than admitting feelings and confrontation. He doesn't really want to talk about it.

The onions are sizzling, a sautéed brown, when Arthur is rolled into the kitchen in a sharp green sweater vest and tan trousers.

"I can take it from here, Eli," Dr. Jones lets the nurse know. He doesn't actually know if he can. Because it'll be the time for serious talking. And somehow, that doesn't settle well in his stomach.

She understands, apparently, because there is no snarky comment as she makes her leave. At first, it's just a few moments of an awful silence. It is like an uncrossable barrier has blossomed between the two, and now they'd never be able to converse freely again. They'd always be held back by Alfred's infidelity and Arthur's mortality.

"So," Arthur eloquently starts.

"It's my fault!" Arthur blurts; he is facing the wrong way, and Alfred is sort of amused, but he realises that if he laughed, all would be lost so he holds it in.

"It really, really isn't. I know you're young to the world, but cheating is never okay. Not even when I stud like me- _ow, okay, that kinda hurt_- like me does it."

"Then why did you do it?" A ghost whisper asks, trying to dig up the truth.

"Because I wasn't thinking. I wasn't thinking about you, or me, or anything. And if you forgive me now, then that'd just move the show along faster. 'Cause me and you are going to be happy," Alfred is beaming again, forgetting that it doesn't mean anything anymore. That he can't win with his false smiles, that false hope is easier to spot in a dark room.

"What if I don't want to be happy?" It comes a moment later, after a slow judgement of Alfred's words.

"Then I'll leave you with your stinky soup and never talk to you again." It sounds unbearable. Arthur's life is much too short to deal with that brand of nonsense all over again.

"Come here, you giant oaf." Pale arms are outstretched, and to Dr. Jones, it's like he finally found a home. Arthur's hugs are the best. It feels like hugging a freezer, but it means so much that the warmth that erupts from within makes up for any physical discomfort.

Later, they are outside. It is a March sunset, the sky looks like cotton candy, fluffy pink and blues. The only one who can see it isn't paying attention. The sight of a wonderful boy, all bones and bravery, is preferred.

"Your parents are coming tomorrow."

"Any special reason?" Arthur knows, knows he hasn't got much time to be alive. What he doesn't know is if Alfred is just in denial or too bloody hopeful for his own good.

"Too see their lovely son, do you know of a better reason?" So this is the path Alfred chooses. The pretending game. Arthur is quite adept at this, and plays along eagerly.

"No. No better reason in the world. What exactly did you do while you were away?"

"I got a new hobby."

"Did you, now?" Arthur asks with fake shock, turning more towards the direction of Alfred's voice. Missing his sight so much at that moment because he wants to have the brilliant blue eyes blind him again.

"Yes, speed eating tubs of Ben and Jerry's. I'm a boss at it."

"Oh, here you are being so dashing and out of my league. Now I will worry constantly over the girls fawning over you." Arthur is teasing, he must be feeling nice. His fingers warm up when they're taken into the hot, lively palm of another.

"I try," And then Alfred winks, but he keeps forgetting no one can see it.

"Don't try too hard, love, or I might have to go and get jealous."

Alfred laughs. Arthur can hear that, and it's just so wonderful that he doesn't even register the pain of his head, the way his brain feels swollen and throbs against his skull.

"That only entices me."

"Keep up with this and I just might pick the stinky soup." Arthur isn't feeling cold at all, at least not today. The heat from his hands spreads through him like wildfire, and he feels himself glowing in the dying light.

"You would at least pick a tasty soup over me, right?" Alfred jokes back, falling into the familiar ease of their banter.

"No, I'd pick anything, really. Campbell's is more filling than you."

"Hey, I can show you filling!" And then they're kissing, but it's so much more than that. They are becoming each other, slipping out of their pretences and thoughts and fully accepting each other. Acknowledging all the do and think and say, memorising the way the other's heart beats. It is a comforting sound in Arthur's ear.

Their tongues are wet, sliding along each other with an eased pace, rubbing around teeth and tangling together as hands roam up shoulders and down backs and another wheelchair hug is given.

Alfred stops the fornicating to roll Arthur to an empty clearing out back. No one is out, and darkness finally comes.

"Alfred, Alfred, don't let me die a virgin, please." Arthur is mumbling into the shirt of his doctor. He is almost crying through blind eyes, but doesn't let himself. He doesn't need to feel sad; he has all he could ever want.

"I can't do that, Artie. You know I can't." A bittersweet smile graces his lips, because he knows he only needs a little more pushing and then he can do it.

"Please, oh, don't make me beg. That'd be cruel. You owe me. I want it, please!" He is yelling now, not able to control what passes through his lips but all he knows is that this is what he wants.

"Your parents are coming tomorrow," Alfred reminds him needlessly. No one is thinking about the parents.

"I'm not saying please again. You don't deserve it." Arthur slides himself out of the wheelchair on his own, and he lays sprawled on the grass, lips full and pouty.

And so of course Alfred takes him. It is slow and passionate, and the stars pop up sometime after. They glitter like diamonds in the sky, and Alfred feels so relaxed that the world could end and all would be fine.

"_The stars come nightly to the sky; the tidal wave unto the sea; nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, can keep my own away from me."_Arthur is great, too. His mind is nowhere, his lungs heaving, but he is getting better. He feels like a normal kid.

"What are you babbling about now?"

"Are you saying you don't enjoy my poetry?" Arthur is too happy to have any bite in his voice.

"Whether I enjoy it or not ain't the thing, you're babblin' like a bobble head, doll."

"That metaphor doesn't even make sense," Arthur groans, tries to roll over but fails. Alfred turns him his arms.

The air is misty around them, but Arthur isn't shivering, so they'll stay outside for now. Alfred still slips the teenager back into his clothes, not wanting to risk the flu or any other preventable illnesses.

The rest of the month will pass like this. Late night rendezvous, avoiding the parents. And wonderful, whimsical conversations about futures that will never happen. That could never happen.

"Will there be red roses at our wedding?" Arthur kids, smiling playfully in the general direction of Alfred.

"Yes, of course sweetie. I promise."

Arthur feels like he could live forever.

* * *

Of course Arthur Kirkland dies. It is on the 23rd of April. His birthday. What a surprise-he did live to be eighteen. He is lying in bed; his parents are out getting lunch because Ireland and Scot are complaining about themselves dying of hunger if they wait any longer, and Martha can't agree with Oliver on which brand of juice will be best for the kids, so they both have to go anyways- and surely if he just spent eighteen years slowing decomposing, he won't go too fast all of a sudden. Which is wrong, because twenty minutes later, while they are eating chicken nuggets, his heart starts to fail. His mouth starts to convulse, and the rest of his body is slack. At first, Alfred thinks he's choking, and what an awful way to die that would be. But instead, it is a final poem, barely even heard, his speech so awful and childish.

"_Let not the roses lie too thickly tangled round my tomb._" At first, it doesn't mean anything. It means nothing at all and Alfred thinks Arthur left without saying goodbye, but then a conversation that seemed forever ago comes flooding back to him in a wave of something like relief and remorse. Yes, their wedding. Arthur in a white suit and blue waistcoat, Alfred looking dashing in something-anything, because he hadn't decided yet. And roses, so many roses everywhere that all of the guests feel in love and romantic, but not French. Never French.

How childish they were, planning a nonexistent future so well. They couldn't live in the present, it was much too painful. But now the painless options are over. There is no pretending on a death bed. Alfred must be brave.

It occurs to him that he never told Arthur he loved him, and Arthur never told him he loved him either. His heart hurts at that thought. Then he wonders if it would've been a lie if he told him.

What they had was stronger than love. Love is too light and overused. What they had was mostly sorrow, the perfect pain that is so easy to get addicted to. It numbs you politely. One that scars you while you are aware of it, fully aware. But you continue anyway. Arthur was his swain. So young. Maybe it wasn't love. Maybe it was just devotion, and some blind faith that was going to end wrong, so don't open your heart the full way. Or just the opposite, Alfred opened himself too much because he knew it was going to end badly. Out of all the people who'd left him, died and left him on Earth alone, he was glad Arthur was the one that hurt the most.

Dr. Jones reaches over to the side of the bed, watching the white sheets clench in fists, he is in pain. Medicine won't do now, there is no more pain to dull. Only the pain of death. Alfred doesn't cry, his cheeks and eyes are dry, a drought extends inside of him and suddenly he just wants a cool glass of water, wet with condensation. With the poetry book firm in his arms, he picks it up and flips to a random page. No, that is about swimming and it won't do because he's too thirsty to talk about that. On the second try a poem by Arthur Symons is found. He scans down the page until he finds a comforting place to start. The end. He doesn't think about the words until after his Arthur stops breathing, and to him, it's very true. It's a promise, the very last step in courting Arthur Kirkland.

"_Only thoughts of you remain in my heart where they have lain, perfumed thoughts of you, remaining, a hid sweetness, in my brain. Others leave me; all things leave me- you remain._"

And then he's dead, and Alfred knows he's dead because he's seen it a million times in the hospital when there is beeping and flashing, but he doesn't need beeping and flashing now to know what he knew the first time he ever stepped foot into that room. A lifetime ago. Another lifetime passes, but it is all the same. The lesson remains in place by some universal code of conduct.

The lesson is this:

It's always a bit sullen in a hospice. Quiet and a little bitter. Carefree laughs don't exist there. And if you tried to name a smell, you could say it was a methodic bleach cleaning, powdery, packet mashed potatoes, and mothball books. The absurd poetry never left. No, not very pleasant smells. And no, the walls are not all a dead white. The occupants are not all old and shrivelled and positively mad or delightfully cynical. In fact, a little boy sits on the edge of his bed.

He is wearing satin pants, the same colour as his long, black hair tied back in a ponytail that swishes down and tickles his back. He doesn't smile often, nor does he leave his room. Besides his talks with Dr. Jones, he is silent. But this story will never be about him. In three weeks, he'll be gone. And someone else will be in the washed-_rewashed_-sheets, keeping them warm for a few more nights.

* * *

_Here in the little room_  
_You sleep the sleep of innocent tired youth,_  
_While I, in very sooth,_  
_Tired, and awake beside you in the gloom,_  
_Watch for the dawn, and feel the morning make_  
_A loneliness about me for your sake._

_You are so young, so fair,_  
_And such a child, and might have loved so well;_  
_And now, I cannot tell,_  
_But surely one might love you anywhere,_  
_Come to you as a lover, and make bold_  
_To beg for that which all may buy with gold._

_Your sweet, scarce lost, estate_  
_Of innocence, the candour of your eyes,_  
_Your childlike pleased surprise,_  
_Your patience: these afflict me with a weight_  
_As of some heavy wrong that I must share_  
_With God who made, and man who found you, fair._

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading/reviewing/favouriting/everything awesome that you guys have done.**

**A special thanks to RamenNoodlesXD who beta'd the story **

**Hope to see you all around!**


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